by Henry James
Clarke nursed her vodka in silence.
‘C’mon. It’s done now,’ coaxed Myles, slapping her partner on the thigh. Clarke winced in pain. ‘Sorry!’ Myles gasped.
Clarke grasped her glass and drained half of it. ‘That was, possibly – actually, no possibly about it, definitely – the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my whole career.’
‘I’d agree with you on that, love.’
Clarke glanced up as a sunburnt young man in a vest and red neckerchief plonked a pint of what looked like cider on the fruit machine in front of them.
‘Drysdale was bit odd, don’t you think? Seemed keen to get rid of us. Said DS Frost and Waters were on their way over. Do you think we should have waited?’
‘Nah, we’ll find out what the score is as and when. And there’s no need to be formal with me, love.’ Myles smiled a broad smile. ‘You and Frost – everyone knows.’
‘Knows what?’ said Clarke defensively.
‘You know, no need to be coy. You got a thing going.’
‘What of it?’ she snapped.
‘Hey, I don’t mind. He’s not my type. Just trying to loosen you up a bit, after the morning we’ve had,’ she said. ‘Now DS Waters – I wouldn’t mind a bit of that.’
‘So you said.’ Clarke looked up from her drink. ‘Look, I’m sorry, you’re right. I should chill out a bit.’
‘Good girl. Now, knock that back and I’ll get another one in.’
The vodka was beginning to have an effect on Clarke, and for the first time that week she felt the tension loosen. She pulled from her bag a pack of Silk Cut and lit one. The pub was practically empty, besides the H. E. Bates type at the fruit machine, and Myles was back quickly.
‘Doubles.’
‘Is that wise? We ought to check in with uniform at Denton Woods as soon as …’ Though she wasn’t of a mind to turn it down. This morning and Jack Frost had collectively finished her off. She eyed the man at the fruit machine. Maybe she should have a fling with someone her own age; that’s what Frost was always telling her. Yeah, maybe she would – see how that went down.
‘Forget that – weather’s due to break this afternoon. Thunderstorm on its way. The woods will be a quagmire by the time we get there. Sometimes it helps to get a bit numb. Hello, anyone at home?’
‘Sorry, drifted off. Things on my mind.’
‘Problem shared is a problem halved.’
Clarke drank thirstily. She didn’t know this woman, didn’t even particularly like her – thought her a bit of a tart, if she was being perfectly honest – but did it really matter? She seemed a willing ear. ‘Since you ask’ – she exhaled – ‘it’s Jack Frost.’
The vodka had opened the floodgates and months of frustration came out: the false promises, the forgetfulness, the selfishness, all in the name of the job. ‘Even on my birthday, he was following up a lead on a bank robber who got away, who nobody even cares about any more.’
‘But, love, you knew he was like that from the start. You can’t expect him to change. Men never do.’
‘I guess so.’ Clarke shook her head and drained the glass.
‘Cheer up, love. Live a little.’ Myles smiled, her cheeks beginning to glow. She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I left a note for DS Waters at the front desk this morning, asking him to meet me tonight in the Eagle.’
‘You never!’ Clarke was shocked. She thought briefly about her own note to Jack, which had so far had zero response. ‘Isn’t that a bit forward? And the Eagle is a police pub! It’s practically on the doorstep of the station. Everyone will know.’
‘What of it?’ challenged Myles, shooting Silk Cut smoke towards the ceiling. ‘It’s only a drink. What else would he be doing this evening? Watching porn with Simms and Miller? I reckon it’ll be a laugh.’
The pathology lab, with its familiar cold, grey atmosphere, was of course impervious to the brilliant May sunshine outside its concrete skin. Frost knew this well enough, but yet again found himself shivering in the corridor on his way to meet Drysdale.
‘Should have put a jacket on,’ he mumbled to Waters.
‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Drysdale greeted them while pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘You two look like you’ve just got back from the Costa del Sol.’
‘Afternoon, Doc,’ said Frost, removing his shades. ‘It’s called sunshine to those in the world of the living.’
‘As long as it’s not fashion,’ the pathologist said drily. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’ he muttered to Waters, though he didn’t wait for a response, moving off to adjust the overhead light.
‘Come closer,’ he said, ‘you’ll see nothing from there. Prepare yourselves.’
Frost took a tentative step forward as Drysdale removed the sheet. He craned his neck but couldn’t work out what he was meant to be looking at.
‘Come here, man, you’re being coy. Here.’
‘Jesus H. Christ,’ muttered Waters. Though he’d seen the scene-of-crime photos earlier that morning, the sight of the body was way more visceral than he had expected.
The pathologist explained to Frost that the fifteen-year-old boy on the slab in front of him had had most of his internal organs and his entire genitalia removed. Drysdale, in all his years of practice, had never come across anything quite like it, he went on to say. He’d only ever read about such cases in textbooks, cases like the Jack the Ripper murders.
‘But the Ripper murdered women – prostitutes. Not teenage boys,’ Waters pointed out.
‘Quite. Also, the removal of the organs in the Ripper victims was done with medical precision. The killer knew what he was doing. But here, the operation has been rather sloppy.’ Drysdale leaned into the corpse. ‘If you look here – the severing …’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Frost said. ‘Any clue to the exact cause of death?’
‘Not as yet. However, the victim was not bound as one might expect—’
‘What, he just let whoever it was slice him open, then?’ Frost said incredulously.
‘If you’ll just let me finish, Detective – there’s no chafing or bind marks, but there are pressure marks, more evident at the wrists.’
‘And the ankles?’
‘No.’
‘If he were wearing jeans, say, could that prevent chafing?’ Waters enquired.
‘Possibly.’
‘Well, can you hazard a guess at a cause of death?’ Frost persisted.
‘At this stage I’m inclined to think death was caused by these wounds.’ He pointed at what remained of the boy’s abdomen.
‘Wounds? Wounds is a bit of an understatement, Doc. DC Clarke suffered a wound getting jabbed with a knife on Monday …’
‘A turn of phrase, Sergeant.’
‘So,’ cut in Waters, ‘are you saying the victim was alive when this happened?’
‘It is possible. Probable, in fact. I would need the toxicology report to confirm lack of poison in the bloodstream, but on the face of it, yes, he was alive when sliced open – though not for long. There’s no sign of a blow to the head, for instance.’
‘I see.’ Frost paced the lab, his hands behind his back. He was freezing.
‘He’s been dead some time. Since the weekend, I’d say. May I ask how and where the body was found?’
‘It was left on the golf course.’
‘Hmm,’ the pathologist mused.
‘Hmm, what?’ Frost said. ‘C’mon, Doc, don’t come over all mysterious on us.’
‘Well, there are very few traces of soil or grass, only those from the body resting on the green, one suspects. No fibres. The body is clean.’ He peered down and pointed with tweezers at a spot on the forehead. ‘Nothing except this.’
‘What?’ Frost said. They both moved forward.
‘You’re in the light, come this side,’ Drysdale said. ‘Look.’ He very delicately lifted what appeared to be a small white pebble from the dead boy’s forehead.
‘What’s that?’ Waters
asked.
‘We’d need to run tests,’ said Drysdale, ‘but on the face of it, it looks like wax.’
‘Wax?’ Frost repeated, scratching his chin. ‘Strange.’
‘How was the body found?’ asked Drysdale.
‘I’ve told you – on the golf course.’
‘Yes, but in what position?’
‘Damn, left the snaps in the car,’ Frost said, irritated.
‘He was laid out in a star shape, according to Mr Mullett,’ Waters replied.
‘In other words, a pentagram.’ Drysdale paused in thought, then looked directly at Frost. ‘I’m no expert, but perhaps the boy’s death was part of some sort of ritual?’
‘What do you make of that, then?’ Frost asked Waters. They pulled away from the lab and headed for Eagle Lane. The weather had changed ominously; dark-grey clouds were looming over Denton.
‘Grisly.’
The radio was crackling and spitting, irritating the hell out of Frost. He heard Superintendent Mullett’s name mentioned.
‘Here, we need something to lighten our mood.’ Frost leaned over and clicked off the radio. He fumbled with a cassette. ‘Do you mind? Been carrying this around all week.’
‘Should you do that while on duty? Turn off the radio?’
‘Put it this way, last time I turned off the radio I nearly got blown up. It can’t get any worse than that.’
‘Whatever you say, man,’ Waters said, bemused.
‘There we go.’ Frost sank back as the music filled the Vauxhall.
‘Count Basie?’ Waters said, surprised. ‘How old are you? Anyway, back to the case. This idea of Drysdale’s, pagan rites or whatever, I don’t see it somehow. I mean, it’s not Halloween or anything.’
‘It does seem far-fetched, I’ll grant you. Many things’ve turned up in Denton Woods over the years, but witches or satanists is pushing it,’ Frost said. They sat at a junction on the Rimmington Road, the Vauxhall purring heavily while waiting for the lights to change. Frost observed them taking down the May Day bunting from the pub on the crossroads. On a blackboard a colourful chalk drawing advertised Morris Men. ‘When did Drysdale reckon the kid was killed?’
‘He didn’t say specifically; sometime over the weekend.’
‘The bank holiday weekend. May Day is, I’m sure, some sort of pagan deal. Originally, before the developers moved in, Denton was a small market town, very rural. We tend to forget.’ Frost had an envelope with copies of the crime-scene photographs in his lap. He took out one picture and studied it.
‘What you driving at?’ Waters asked. ‘You worried you’re gonna get lynched and burned alive like Edward Woodward in The Wicker Man?’
‘Just a thought, though I wouldn’t say no to the bird who cast the spell or whatever … What was it Drysdale said about the lad’s position – was it a pentangle?’
‘Pentagram,’ Waters corrected.
‘Pentagram,’ Frost repeated slowly.
‘So you agree with Drysdale that there might be witches out there?’
‘Who knows? We’ve got bugger all else to go on.’
Wednesday (3)
‘WITCHCRAFT? ARE YOU sure?’ Superintendent Mullett looked from Frost to Waters, vexed. There was a clatter of china as Miss Smith entered with his afternoon tea.
‘Thank you, Miss Smith, that will be all. I’m not to be disturbed.’ His secretary smiled uncertainly at him and left the room.
‘Of course I’m not sure,’ Frost said, pacing the office, a plume of smoke in his wake, ‘but you said yourself the manner of death was significant.’
‘I know what I said, but still, witchcraft? This is the 1980s. The computer age. Not the Middle Ages.’
‘Sir, the body was only discovered this morning; it’s very early days. This is just an idea.’
‘Ideas have no place in Denton CID. Procedure, Frost. Hard evidence. We can’t have talk of witches and goblins.’
‘Goblins?’
‘You know what I mean. We can’t have you propounding ridiculous theories. If anything like this gets out, we’re really done for.’ Mullett frowned. ‘Now will you please sit down, before you wear a hole in the carpet!’ Mullett had never seen Frost like this, accustomed as he was to the detective slouching in a chair. This pacing about the office was irritating and unsettling. Waters sat quietly to one side, offering nothing up. Mullett’s eye was caught by the flashing red light of his new, multi-line phone.
‘The press,’ Mullett continued, ‘have been on the phone constantly. We’re going to have to say something.’
‘We?’ Frost retorted, lighting a further cigarette off the butt of the one just finished. ‘It’s you who’s at the forefront, sir, having discovered the body …’
Mullett was sure the smug reprobate was smirking. But Frost was interrupted by a rap on the door, followed by Miss Smith entering the office.
‘I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!’ he snapped.
‘It’s Mr Winslow, sir,’ she said apologetically, ‘on line one.’
‘Put him though, then,’ Mullett said sharply.
‘He’s there, sir,’ she said, pointing at the phone, ‘flashing in red.’
Mullett snapped up the receiver, saying to Frost as he did so, ‘Here, give me one of those cigarettes.’ He pressed the flashing red button.
‘Afternoon, sir.’
‘Stanley, what the blazes is going on? I’ve had the Denton Echo pestering my people all morning.’
‘About what, sir?’
‘Whether I thought the sinking of the Belgrano was the turning point in the war – what the hell do you think? This boy ripped apart on the golf course, you imbecile!’ the Assistant Chief Constable barked down the line.
‘With all due respect, sir, the body was only discovered this morning.’ Mullett looked at Frost, conscious he was repeating what the DS had said, but Frost feigned not to be listening, and was staring out of the window. ‘We’re still assessing matters. It’s not an unusual occurrence for us to hold back a day, even if the situation is … is bizarre.’
‘Of course, under usual circumstances the discovery of a body in a most “bizarre” state would accord us a day or so’s grace …’ The Assistant Chief Constable paused; Mullett could hear him take a breath. ‘But these aren’t usual circumstances, are they? You, a superintendent of the County police force, discovered a body in full view of every town dignitary between here and Reading! You can’t just sit back and do nothing. I thank my lucky stars I had emergency root-canal treatment this morning and couldn’t make it. I never thought I’d hear myself say that!’
‘Root canal? Sorry to hear that, sir – very painful,’ Mullett said carefully.
‘Not as painful as life will be for you if you don’t get on top of this. Who’s heading the investigation?’
Mullett was silent for a second.
‘Jim Allen?’ Winslow prompted.
‘DI Allen is on a computer course. At Hendon. At your request, sir,’ Mullett added.
‘Well, what of it? Who’s running this?’ Winslow hissed irritably.
‘DS Frost,’ said Mullett softly, regarding Frost as he spoke, who was still standing at the window, looking like a refugee from the sixties, in what could well be a shirt from Oxfam.
‘He can hold the fort for now, but get Allen back pronto. And how’s our coloured friend doing?’
Mullett cringed at the reference, staring fixedly at Frost in an effort to avoid the eye of the large, inscrutable officer he was now required to talk about. ‘DS Waters is fitting in rather well. It’s useful to have a different … perspective.’ He found himself grinning inanely.
‘Good, good. You can never tell with those chaps. I’ll let you get on with it, then – and call a press conference.’
‘Today? Isn’t that rather rash? We’ve nothing to go on.’
‘Superintendent, that is not the point. Control of the situation is what counts here. You’ll think of something. Keep me posted. Good day.’ The lin
e went dead.
Mullett replaced the receiver heavily in its cradle, noticing he’d dropped ash over the desk throughout the conversation.
Frost pivoted round. ‘All well at Gestapo HQ?’
‘That’s an inappropriate remark, Sergeant. It seems Mr Winslow would like a press conference.’
‘Would he, now. I’d best be off, then – to give you time to prepare.’
‘Ah, wait a minute.’ Mullett shifted awkwardly in his grand leather chair. Winslow and Frost had a point – his being there when the body was found somehow put the onus on him to apprehend the murderer. The situation was potentially sticky. If he could somehow shift responsibility on to Frost … ‘Jack, come here.’
Frost halted at the door.
‘Sit down a minute. Since DI Williams’s demise, we’ve been a detective inspector down.’
Frost sat stoically in front of the superintendent, saying nothing.
‘I think it’s time to raise your profile,’ Mullett weaselled, not entirely convinced this was the right tack, but proceeding anyway. ‘If you tidy yourself up a bit and are seen to be taking command of this situation …’
Frost raised his eyebrows. ‘I can dress myself, sir.’
‘Of course you can, but with a little more effort, and perhaps an occasional shave, it could be you in front of the press and TV cameras instead of me.’
Frost rubbed his bristly jaw. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. After all, you’re so good at it.’
‘Well, yes, Jack, but I can’t be seen to be hogging the limelight all the time. Wouldn’t you agree, DS Waters?’
‘I don’t think it’s really my place to say, sir,’ Waters replied, raising the palms of his hands defensively.
‘We can swap if you insist.’ Frost looked earnest. ‘But right now I’m required urgently at the lab; the pathologist wants to see me ASAP.’ He paused. ‘He’s found something in the remains.’
‘The remains?’ Mullett scratched nervously at his moustache. ‘You mean, the body?’
‘Call it what you like, sir, it’s not a very nice sight, however you describe it – as you would know. We’ve been there once today already, but since then Drysdale has opened it up …’
